


Yeah, So It Seems

by howler32557038



Series: The Simple Life [7]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Mpreg, POV Steve Rogers, Parenthood, Post Mpreg, Post-The Simple Life, Pre-Something Good Can Work, Pregnancy, Romantic Comedy, Romantic Fluff, Series, Steve Feels, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Unplanned Pregnancy, midnight snacks, pregnancy reveal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-02
Updated: 2018-07-02
Packaged: 2019-06-01 08:18:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15138980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howler32557038/pseuds/howler32557038
Summary: You can't just have one of these things, apparently.Steve and Lincoln fix burgers at two in the morning, and Bucky gets home at six with a whole lot of good news.





	Yeah, So It Seems

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Caitlin_Monteith](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caitlin_Monteith/gifts).



> This is missing some tags and riddled with typos, probably. I'll fix it when I get home from work. XD

**JUNE 26, 2022. 0145 HOURS.**

 

Steve used to turn in his reports to Ops the same day he came back from the mission. Always had his done first. Tony used to make fun of him for it. Never failed to get in a little dig at him — _There’s my star student_ and _You always finish this early?_ And _Hey, wait a minute, this just says “I can do what I want.”_ Steve hadn’t ever minded, really. It was Tony’s way of showing love. Those days are _long_ gone. Now, he’s consistently second-to-last on turning in his mission reports — Barton is the only one he beats every time, and Barton is _retired._ Barton also doesn’t do his mission reports. At all. He never has.

It’s been one week and three days since Steve came home from an operation on the northern border of Wakanda, where AIM had set up a series of surveillance stations. They’d been stealing Wakandan technology to repurpose for weapons — or they’d been trying to, at least. T’Challa probably could have taken care of it on his own, but he knew very well that Steve and Bucky never minded an excuse to visit, and Bucky had gotten to take the last mission there. Steve was also eager to see the AIM situation through to its end, since it had intermittently consumed his life for the last six months. Tying the threads of his ongoing investigation to the discoveries he’d made in Wakanda will take a while, and any possible connections should be noted in his mission report. It’s going to take at least two hours to write up, even for him. One week and three days after returning from Wakanda, he still hadn’t started on it.

That’s how he ended up on the living room floor at 1:45 in the morning with six months of notes and paperwork spread out around him on the rug. The first twenty-four hours after he’d gotten back to the Facility, he had focused entirely on Lincoln and Bucky. Family dinner. Housework. They’d played a game of baseball with Lincoln. On the second night, Bucky had laid into him, bitching unrelentingly about the way Steve (allegedly) encouraged Lincoln to put dishes into the dishwasher before _washing_ them. Steve had wanted to know what the fucking point of dishwasher was if you were just going to wash them by hand first. It made no goddamn sense, and Steve had said as much. Bucky had argued that its purpose was actually to _sanitize_ the dishes, not _wash_ them. Steve had countered with _“Then why’s it called a fuckin’ dishwasher?”_ Bucky had called Steve an asshole. Steve had called Bucky a neurotic old queen. They’d spent the rest of the night having the most ridiculous, intense, violent, hair-pulling sex imaginable.

That seemed to be happening a lot, lately.

After a few minutes staring at all of the data spread out on the carpet around him, Steve finally feels like he has his thoughts in order. His fingers are hesitant on the keyboard of his Starkpad for the first sentence, and then he hits a flow. Two sentences. Three. And now he’s flying through this bastard. He’ll be done in twenty minutes.

And then he starts to feel a little _weird._ Like he’s being watched. He looks up.

Lincoln, in nothing but his underwear, is trying to army-crawl from the hallway, around the counter, and into the kitchen. Steve’s just thankful he’s got the _underwear._ Lincoln has _zero_ fucking sense about clothes — especially pants. Just doesn’t want to wear them. His eyes are on Steve as he crawls, and he’s got a big, stupid grin on his face like he’s fighting back giggles as he tries to sneak past his dad to get to the refrigerator.

Steve stares him down, trying to look disapproving, even though he can feel a smile forming on his face. Lincoln finally breaks down and laughs. In that moment, Steve gives up on the report. He’ll get to it in the morning.

Lincoln runs toward him, slowing down only when Steve puts his hands out. “Woah, stop, stop, stop — not on my paperwork, baby—” And then, with a determined little smirk, Lincoln takes a few step back. “Oh, wait, no — Lincoln, you’re gonna kill me— _Ow.”_ Heedless of Steve’s pleas, Lincoln jumps over the papers and into Steve’s lap. And that child is _made_ of knees and elbows. Steve had always imagined that kids were so _soft_ and gentle and sweet, like kittens — turns out they’re more like goats. That’s the best comparison Steve can think of. They’ll jump on things they shouldn’t jump on, climb whatever they can’t jump over, it hurts when they step on you, hurts when they headbutt you, they’ll eat anything they can reach, and they make a lot of noise but are particularly fond of screaming. Goats. Oddly enough, Bucky was partial to both.

Lincoln makes himself fit into the cradle of Steve’s crossed legs, curling up and pressing himself close to Steve’s chest. Steve gets the feeling that he’s being intentionally precious and clingy, because he knows he shouldn’t be up at this hour. “Dad, I’m starving. I can’t go to bed because I’m too hungry to get any sleep at all.”

“Want me to make you another round of waffles?” Steve offers hopefully. Waffles are easy — at least the frozen ones are — and Lincoln can eat them in bed and (ideally) pass out again. Like he had at ten o’clock that night.

No such luck: “Um, we _just_ ate a waffle.”

 _Four waffles, but whatever._ “Alright, well, what do you want, then?”

Lincoln pretends to think, as if he hadn’t gotten out of bed with something in mind. “Mashed potatoes and chicken and green beans.”

“Baby, we ate all of that for dinner.”

 _“All_ of it?”

“Yep. No leftovers.”

“Even the green beans?”

“All out of green beans.”

“But Daddy, they had _bacon_ in them.”

Steve struggles to figure that one out. He’s not really sure what Lincoln expects him to say. “We’re...still...out of them.”

“But I loved them.”

Steve leans down and kisses the top of his son’s head. “I’ll make some more tomorrow. Let’s think of something else for tonight.”

“Um. I was just thinking, actually, because we don’t — are all the green beans — they’re all gone. So what about — is the bacon gone, too?”

Steve nods sadly. “Yeah, it sure is. I’ll get some more tomorrow. I promise.”

“Maybe I could go to bed if I ate a cheeseburger.”

Steve laughs. “Oh. So that’s what it’s going to take, huh?”

“I just thought you might want to make a cheeseburger with me, Dad.”

“Are you sure you don’t want something a little quicker? Maybe a bowl of cereal? I’ll put a banana in it.”

Lincoln ducks his head, burying his face in Steve’s armpit, and then utters a muffled, doleful reply of, “I guess so.”

 

Ten minutes later, Steve is flipping four cheeseburgers out of a frying pan and onto buns, operating the spatula with one hand while the other supports Lincoln’s weight. He’s dozing on Steve’s shoulder (he _must_ be getting some sleep, because Steve can feel a little damp spot forming just by his mouth). Steve’s just glad he’s getting a little rest.

He only wakes up when he hears the ketchup bottle. “No mustard, Dad! No mustard.”

“It’s just ketchup, Lincoln.”

“I know, I’m just making sure you don’t put mustard on mine. You can put it on yours.”

“Well, thanks.”

“Is there — are there gonna be mashed potatoes to eat with it?”

Steve stares straight ahead. How _fast_ does Lincoln think mashed potatoes can happen? Does he think they just _appear?_ “Nope, I don’t have any mashed potatoes.”

“Can we just have some peanut butter, then?”

“Do you still want your burger, or do you just want peanut butter now?”

“No, I want the burger, Dad! But also peanut butter, too. Just with a spoon.”

“Peanut butter and a cheeseburger,” Steve confirms, just to be sure. Lincoln nods. “At two o’clock in the morning,” he chuckles. “Oh, boy.”

Lincoln looks a little confused by the way Steve is shaking his head and smiling. “Is that okay?”

“Baby, that has been your favorite meal since before you were even _born.”_

 

Lincoln eats like he _was_ starving. His first burger is gone in under ten minutes. Steve had made him a second, just to be on the safe side, but Lincoln goes straight for the peanut butter jar. Steve’s just glad he doesn’t put it _on_ the burger, like Bucky had taken to doing when he was pregnant. No cheese, a slice of tomato as thick as the burger, an absolute fucking _mess_ of pepper and mayonnaise, and a dollop of peanut butter on every bite. Steve feels like _he’s_ got morning sickness just thinking about it.

Lincoln’s eyelids are starting to droop a little, thank God. And now that he’s got something on his stomach, Steve might even have the energy to finish up his—

His phone-screen has barely had time to light up with the image of Bucky’s face before he’s answered it. The report is no longer on his mind. “Hi, sweetheart!”

“Papa!” Lincoln shouts, before Bucky even has the opportunity to speak — and, more importantly, before Steve has the opportunity to sneakily advise him to stay quiet, so that the two of them don’t get into trouble. “Hi, Papa, um, are you coming home?”

“Steve, is it two in the morning in New York?” Maybe it’s just Steve’s imagination, but sometimes he _swears_ Bucky sounds less like James Buchanan and more like the Hydra assassin he’d met in Washington. Bucky talked slow — almost a drawl — easy, relaxed, smooth. The Soldier’s voice had been flat, emotionless, but there had been a cold, merciless rage just beneath the calm exterior, and Steve had heard it escaping like steam from every word. That’s how he sounds right now.

“Uh...well, yeah, I guess it’s about ten ‘til. Or — well, it’s ten after.”

Steve almost wishes this wasn’t a video call. Bucky looks like he’s fresh out of a fight, which doesn’t do much to soften the hard, dangerous look in his eye. “Why is my son awake?”

 

 _Bucky, you slick fucking bastard,_ Steve thinks. _Fine. You got Batroc. You better hope I don’t run into Frank Castle anytime soon._

The moment Steve and Bucky end their call, Lincoln is up and running back through the kitchen. Goddamnit, he was _just_ getting sleepy, and now he’s tearing through the house and digging through the fridge like a maniac. Steve whistles sharply at him. “Outta there. Bedtime.”

“Papa’s home! We gotta make breakfast!”

Steve follows his son into the kitchen and hooks his arm around his waist — the rest of his torso is _inside_ the refrigerator, grabbing whatever he can get his hands on that seems like a breakfast-related ingredient. Steve lifts him by his waist to haul him out of there and carries him off like a sack of onions, and Lincoln stays stiff as a board against his side, still clutching the full gallon of milk. Steve takes it from him.

“Papa’s still on the jet, Lincoln. It’s going to be morning before he gets home.”

“No!”

“Yes.”

“I want to wait for him downstairs in the big hangar!”

“Nope, bedtime.”

“Dad!”

“You can’t go downstairs, Lincoln. It’s two-thirty in the morning and you’re wearing Daniel Tiger underpants. Bed, now.”

“I wanna sleep on the couch with Batman.”

Steve sighs. He should say no. Bucky would say no, and he wouldn’t put up with any arguing, either. But _Batman_ does put Lincoln out fast — especially if the volume is low. And then, Lincoln would be out of his bedroom and there would be some white-noise to give Steve a little cover — he can get the mess in there cleaned up before Bucky gets home.

“Fine. Couch and _Batman.”_

“With the peanut butter.”

“Oh, yeah,” Steve groans, as if he’d forgotten something painfully obvious. “We can’t go to bed without our jar of peanut butter.”

 

The serum did an excellent job of mitigating every form of discomfort the human body was subject to, including fatigue. That certainly didn’t mean that Steve didn’t get tired. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t _prefer_ to sleep. But that’s alright. Sometimes, you stay awake for four days straight fighting off the army of sentient, self-replicating robots that your friend accidentally unleashed on the world. Sometimes, you’ve just got a lot of laundry to fold, Legos to put away, and one mysterious stain on your son’s carpet that might be spaghetti sauce, and might not be. The house is spotless by the time Steve gets another text from Bucky.

**Hey panda**

Usually, Steve can interpret Bucky’s bad texting. He’s got to wait for a follow up on that one, though.

Several seconds later: **Jets landed**

_Want me to come meet you down there?_

_Need help unloading?_ Steve is already making his way out into the lounge, trying to think about who else might be off duty and available to watch Lincoln for a few minutes. Thankfully, Vision is already there, seated on one of the couches and hunched over a small coffee table. He seems to be...well, Steve supposes he’s taken up _scrapbooking_ now. It’s something new every week, with Vision.

Bucky replies quickly.

**No**

**Need to talk**

_About what? You okay?_

**Probably**

**Not prob PRIVATELY**

_What’s going on? Are you hurt?_

**Steve can we pleae justr a lol js down here**

_ok omw_

**?**

_On my way_

“Vision, I hate to—”

“Ah, good morning, Steve,” he smiles immediately. “May I have a few printed photographs of your family?”

“Um — sure, later, no problem — Vision, listen, if it’s not too much trouble, could you make sure Lincoln doesn't play with the stove for a few minutes? I gotta go meet—”

“That’s exactly why I’m here.”

“Thank you.”

Vision stands up and walks slowly toward Steve, with something like a knowing smile on his face. From AI with his level of sentience, the expression is almost eerie. “You can relax, Steve. Bucky isn’t injured. Well, apart from a mild zygomatic fracture. And he’s not upset with you.”

Steve nods, but he’s completely perplexed. “What’s going on?”

“Well, I...you’ll have to discuss the details with your fiance. I just thought I should inform you that nothing is _wrong,_ since I’ve noticed — well, given your tendency toward anxiety.”

Steve sighs relentingly. “Well. Thank you for the diagnosis,” he laughs.

“Sorry,” he says haltingly. “Inappropriate and presumptuous, however true. I’ll keep an eye on your son.” Vision gives him two thumbs up — although the gesture is still a little stiff — and then phases rather casually through Steve’s apartment door.

 

Down in the hangar, the Quinjet is already opened up and a few staff members have begun their routine inspection. Natasha and Clint have already deboarded. Clint’s got one foot on the ramp, like he’s thinking about going back into the cabin for something, and Natasha’s pacing on the deck below. No sign of Bucky. Steve breaks into a jog.

“Hello,” Natasha smiles, turning sharply toward Steve. Despite her grin, her whole demeanor hints at frustration and exhaustion. “Your darling life-partner won’t get off the jet and come talk to you.”

“What the hell’s going on?” Steve laughs nervously.

“Maybe a tiny panic attack. He just needed a minute.” Clint explains, clapping Steve’s shoulder reassuringly.

But Steve’s not in the mood for reassurance or giving anything or anybody a minute. He’s curious. He’s terrified. He’s concerned about the words _panic attack_ , even if they were preceded by _tiny._ He walks right past Clint and his comforting gestures and into the Quinjet’s cabin.

And there’s Bucky. And he looks like hell. He’s having some kind of debate with Brandon from medical, who’s standing there with a Starkpad, looking like he’d really just prefer for Bucky to let him do his job. Meanwhile, Bucky is tying off trash liners from all the Quinjet’s waste receptacles.

“It’s healed up, you don’t have to—”

“You fractured your cheekbone, Sergeant—”

“Seven _hours_ ago.”

“When Ops reports an injury, I _have to—”_

“So just say you did it—”

“I _cannot_ do that—”

“I will come _right_ over to medical in a minute, but I’ve got to—”

“Bucky, let Brandon check you out,” Steve cuts in sternly. He really thought Bucky had gotten over his propensity for refusing to follow safety protocols.

Brandon points the Starkpad at Steve. _“You’re_ no better, Captain.”

Bucky looks oddly stricken, now that he’s noticed Steve. “Brandon — just...give us a few minutes,” he requests quietly, then looks up at the young man, practically ready to beg. “Please.”

Finally, Brandon takes a few steps back and gives them some room. But Steve’s forgotten all about him. He’s taking in the state of the cabin, now. The pile of crumpled, wet tissues on the exam table. The plastic trash liners that Bucky has hurriedly tied off, none of them completely full, but all double bagged. There’s still a faint smell of something unpleasant lingering in the air, even with the cabin and cargo doors opened up. Vomit. And Bucky — Bucky looks nervous. Beyond nervous, when he turns to face Steve, but now Steve can see that even with the tension in his shoulders, his shifting gaze, and the way he can’t seem to stand still or form an explanation, he’s _still_ smiling just a little.

“Oh, God.” Steve will realize much later how awkward and uncomfortable his outburst could potentially have made things, if he had read the signs incorrectly. God knows, it wouldn’t be the first time he’s put his foot in his mouth. But he doesn’t think before he speaks. His jaw just drops and his eyes go wide with shock and excitement and joy, and the words spill out on their own, far too loud, far too hopeful. “Are we _pregnant?”_

Slowly, Bucky’s hesitant smile grows into a broad grin, until he looks positively _stupid_ with the same mind-numbing happiness that Steve knows is written all over his own face. Steve moves toward him, arms open, needing to embrace him and wanting to do it fast, now, immediately, but he _can’t_ because all of his muscles and his brain are tingling and useless. Bucky is reaching out to hug him, moving exactly the same way. The only confirmation he gives is a continuous, unsteady nod, which only stops once Steve has him folded in his arms, with his head tucked against Steve’s shoulder as they share a weak, boneless hug.

“Oh, man. Oh my God,” Steve breathes, voice shaking uncontrollably, somewhere between laughing with delight and whimpering with fear. “Baby, what — how — oh my _God!_ How much, I mean when are we, how many time—?”

“About eight weeks,” Bucky replies, rescuing him.

“And it’s — everything is fine? You’re good? Everyone’s good?”

“Everyone’s good.”

“Every—everyone? Is it twins?”

“No.”

“Oh, God, okay. Is it mine? Jesus, it couldn’t be—no, it couldn’t be Batroc’s, you just met him. It’s mine.”

“Yeah, Steve,” Bucky breaks down, finally laughing in earnest, now that there’s someone in the room who’s handling this worse than he is. “It’s yours.”

“Do Clint and Nat — do they know? Let’s go tell them.”

“They were here when I found out.”

“They knew before I did.”

“Couldn’t be helped.”

“Okay, that’s alright. Sam? Does Sam know?”

“Sam is on an op with Lang. Can’t call him right now—”

“Tony!” Steve takes out his phone and smashes his fingers clumsily against the screen until the damn thing calls Stark.

“Steve, it’s not even six, yet — he’s not up.”

“Yeah?” Tony answers succinctly. He is, in fact, awake, dressed, and in his lab. He took the call on the screen over his work table, which shows Steve a wide enough view of the room to confirm that Bruce is there, too. They’re having coffee together. Steve, in a moment of blind inspiration, ends the call and hangs up on them.

“They’re in Tony’s lab. Let’s go tell them.”

“Stevie, call ‘em back and let ‘em know you’re okay, what the hell—”

“We can be there in a couple minutes, it’s fine.”

“Captain, should I just do this med-check later?” Brandon interjects loudly.

“Yeah, I’ll sign off on it!”

 _“Thank_ you.”

Steve takes off down the ramp, trying to determine if the elevator or the stairs will get him to Tony’s labs faster, wondering just how fast he can climb three flights — never mind him, Bucky shouldn’t sprint up the stairs. Elevator will be fine. They pass quickly by Clint and Natasha, sparing just enough time for Bucky to hastily thank them both, for Clint to give Bucky’s stomach a playful clap (way too rough, as far as Steve is concerned), and for Nat to catch Steve’s hand briefly in her own and whisper, “Set a goddamn date, Rogers.”

Fucking _Natasha._ Can’t ride his ass about finding a sweetheart anymore. Can’t ride his ass about proposing, either. But she always finds _something_.

 

Elevator was a mistake. It takes _so_ long. It’s almost four minutes before it opens up on the R&D floor.

Bruce and Tony seem to have been expecting their arrival, or maybe debating about whether or not Steve needed help, after his swiftly aborted phone call. Steve strides into their work area with no plan and a lot of enthusiasm as Bucky follows behind him at an apologetic distance, clearing his throat uncomfortably.

“Uh-oh, mom’s home, hide the drugs,” Tony sighs blandly, taking a noisy sip of his coffee to punctuate his sentence. _“Nice_ shiner, Barnes — so, if I may ask, what’s going on, boys? Did we pick a venue? Color scheme? Band? Cake-topper? _Anything,_ at all? Steve’s excited, it’s something to do with the cake.”

“Not here about the wedding, Tony,” Steve chuckles.

“Oh, for shit’s sake, come on.” Tony bangs his coffee cup down on the counter in mock exasperation. “I need a big party to be sober at. Here, Banner, wrap that beaker in my shirt so they can step on it safely, we’ll do this right now.”

Bruce clears his throat, waving a dismissive hand in Tony’s direction to silence him. His eyes are fixed pointedly on Bucky. “No — no, this is — oh, man. Did you guys—? Are you?”

Tony’s mouth goes slack for a moment, but no amount of mock-surprise can hide his triumphant grin as he leans back against the counter, staring gleefully at Steve. “Are we _pregnant?”_

 _“We’re_ not,” Bruce snorts. “But I got a feeling Barnes might be.”

“Well, it’s always been a team effort,” Bucky huffs, finally coming to stand beside Steve. Steve throws an arm around him and shakes him victoriously.

“Just like all of our team efforts,” Stark nods shrewdly. “Hydra starts it, Banner figures out how it works, I fund it, Steve sticks his dick in it, and Barnes nearly dies.”

“That does seem to be — God, those are pretty consistent commonalities…” Banner mumbles thoughtfully. “Let me know when you’ve got time for an exam, Bucky — we’ll get some pictures.”

Steve feels like he’s had the wind knocked out him. He doesn’t mean for his end of the handshake and hug he shares with Tony to be half-hearted, but he knows Tony will understand that he’s going to be riding a big dopamine-high for the conceivable future. “Can we do that right now?”

But Bucky shakes his head. Steve feels himself droop, but he can hardly blame himself — he wants to _know._ Now. Incontrovertibly. He wants to see his new baby. Stark looks a little disappointed, too. “Steve,” he sighs. Steve thinks that if Bucky had been wearing a hat, he’d have taken it off. Sounds like he’s got bad news. “Lincoln.”

Steve feels the expression dissolve from his face, leaving him vacant and nervous, clueless as to how to proceed. “How do you think he’ll take it?”

Bucky just laughs. And Steve knows _exactly_ why. Lincoln will have questions. Lincoln will have _opinions_ . Lots of them. Lincoln is firmly, immovably, _unquestionably_ their only child, and he knows it. He could be excited about this. He might also be _devastated._ Either way, he’s going to be a handful for the next few days, at the very least. Steve’s practically worked himself into hysterics just _imagining_ the easiest, tamest questions his son will ask.

“Oh,” Tony groans longingly. “Please, Cap. _Please._ I’ll give you anything you want. _Film this.”_

Bucky wraps his arm around Steve’s waist, reestablishing their physical connection now that Steve’s arm is sliding listlessly down Bucky’s shoulders. “Come on, Steve.” He pats the small of his back bracingly. “We’ve gotta tell him.”

**Author's Note:**

> As always, thank you for reading!


End file.
